


Mr Fell's Bookshop

by RebeccaStevenTaylor



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, I Made Myself Cry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 19:56:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20013940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebeccaStevenTaylor/pseuds/RebeccaStevenTaylor
Summary: Mr Fell's Bookshop has always been a special place for a certain unhappy man





	1. Chapter 1

The man had found the bookshop the first time when he was in London on a school trip. Of course the trip was designed to be educational and well-behaved, so the minute they hit London, all the children had escaped and run to Soho, to look at the more ‘adult’ entertainment.

The boy had found the bookshop like a little island in the centre of it. It was old and battered, and the opening hours were very strange and it was totally unlike anything he had ever seen. He didn’t know that once this area was full of bookshops, that all those coffee shops and mini-supermarket and tourist souvenir shops had once been little bookshops with winding stairs and secret stacks and the breathless silence that comes with many people reading. He went in fully prepared to cause chaos and destruction, as he often did.

That changed the minute he got in.

He stood in the doorway a moment, unsure, certain he would be thrown out the minute he was spotted. He could see the owner, Mr Fell, he remembered, from the name above the door, a nice gentleman in old-fashioned clothes. He was talking to a tall, thin man all in black, wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day. They were having an animated discussion, the kind that would turn into an argument if the two having it didn’t love each other so much. As they saw the boy, Mr Fell touched the other man on the arm and said;

‘Well, it’s too late now.’

He walked over to the boy and asked if he could help.

‘I don’t know,’ the boy just said, honest for once. ‘I was just looking….’

‘Look all you like,’ Mr Fell said kindly. ‘and you are welcome here.’

OoOoOo

The boy spent all afternoon there, walking amongst the shelves that seemed to twist and turn on themselves and come out into odd little alcoves, just right for curling up and reading. The outside noise was deadened and whoever spoke, spoke in a low voice. Even the man in black, who seemed as if he would be loud, was quiet. The boy watched him say goodbye to Mr Fell, who called him Crowley. They didn’t say much more, but they looked at each other, and the boy had never seen two people so much in love.

His parents never looked at each other like that. He had seen it once before, but where?

He spent the entire afternoon there, and he didn’t feel angry or confused, or like he wanted to smash the world up at all. He felt happy, and this was strange to him, because he hadn’t felt happy for a very long time.

He left as twilight fell.

‘Will you be safe getting home?’ Mr Fell said, as he opened the door for the boy to leave.

‘Yeah, there’s always someone looking out for me.’

‘Well, do please call again. Anytime.’

‘Even though I didn’t buy any books?’

‘This isn’t a place to buy books,’ Mr Fell said. ‘This is just a place to be.’

That ought not to have made sense, but just Mr Crowley reappeared and barrelled in as if the few hours he had spent away from Mr Fell were a few hours too many. The boy heard Mr Crowley call Mr Fell angel, and he smiled.

He didn’t believe in angels. He did believe in Mr Fell.

OoOoOoOo

The boy grew up, as children do, and forget the magic they firmly believed in once. He travelled all over the world now, doing terribly important things in darkened rooms with shining screens and other important, but anonymous people. They only knew him as Tony. These are the men and women who run the world. Politicians and dictators and kings and queens come and go, and whilst they are there, everyone, including themselves, think they are the most important people in the world. They are not. They are window-dressing. The very few people that are in the know – and at the moment, that is exactly six and a half people (no-one is quite sure what Ms Bellona knows, but she always seems to be there) know that the world is run by tired little people in darkened rooms with flashing screens.

Tony grew into a man who did his work and did it conscientiously, and hated it. He was aware he was supposed to love it, and proclaimed that he did, loudly and often, because he was expected to. If he did not, there would be glances, and quiet conversations, and he would be sent away, and not being part of this group would be worse than death.

Wouldn’t it?

But every time he was in London, no matter how urgently the screens flashed in the dark chilly rooms, he went to Mr Fell’s bookshop. No matter what time he went the shop was open, despite the long list of closed times on the door. Tuesday afternoons, ten pm on a Monday, on one particularly bad day at 3am on a Friday morning. Mr Fell smiled, and made him welcome, and Mr Crowley would dash off in his car and come back later, breathless and excited, and greet his angel with a kiss.

It was some years – a great deal many years – before the man realised what Mr Crowley was doing. Someone as important as Tony always had a great many people watching him, to protect him or spy on him or hurt him, sometimes all three. Mr Crowley was drawing them off and leading them on a wild goose chase, so Tony could have his time in the bookshop uninterrupted.

That time was precious. He would browse the shelves until something caught his eye and then he would find a comfortable chair and curl up and read. Daniel Defoe, Virginia Woolf, P.G. Wodehouse – any and all of them. Books his colleagues barely knew existed, let alone read – they had no time to read anything as frivolous as books, and certainly not made up stories.

But in that shop he could read. He could smile and laugh and cry and never be ashamed of what he felt, or showing that emotion. Every so often, when he was really lost, Mr Fell would walk over, and in his quiet voice say;

‘Have you read this?’

And the man always took the book, and read it, and found an answer to his problem.

When he had arrived at 3am, that time, in tears, heartbroken, he had intended nothing more than to curl up on the doorstep until the shop opened. But the doors had been open, and he had crawled in.

Mr Fell had offered him Wind in the Willows to read.

‘But this is a children’s book,’ he said.

‘And you loved it as a child. I believe you will find a great comfort now. I often do.’

And Mr Fell had walked away and left him sobbing on the floor with the book.

‘Cocoa, I think,’ Mr Fell had said to Mr Crowley.

‘Remember he likes cinnamon in it,’ Mr Fell had replied, which had surprised Tony, because he hadn’t had cocoa for years, and no-one alive knew he liked cinnamon in it.

He had read, and learned, and looked up once to see Mr Crowley stroking Mr Fell’s cheek and smiling. Something had tugged at his memory then, something he remembered as a child, but it was gone.

He’d tried to apologise next morning, when he felt better, but Mr Fell wouldn’t let him.

‘Nonsense, dear boy, it’s what we’re here for.’

‘Just for a special few though,’ Crowley said. ‘Don’t go telling everyone in London they can get cocoa and books at 3am here.’

‘Special few? Who?’ He was slightly jealous he wasn’t the only one.

‘Those we owe something to,’ Mr Fell said. And occasionally, there had been others. A woman in a green dress and glasses, absorbed in an arcane volume, with a young man that Mr Fell kept firmly away from the computer. A self-possessed black woman, head high, reading Margaret Cavendish. Once a man, almost exactly the same age as him, had bumped into him on the way out, and there had been a spark, almost static electricity, between them, and then he was gone. Mr Fell called him Adam, and the man felt like he ought to know him.


	2. Chapter 2

But happy times pass. He had been in New York when he suddenly felt had to go back to the bookshop **now.**

He hadn’t been back for years. The last time he had noticed that Mr Fell was becoming quite wrinkled, and no longer able to get up the ladders quite so nimbly. Mr Crowley’s red hair was streaked with grey and he had taken to carrying a long slim black silver-topped walking stick, which Tony suspected was a Regency sword-stick.

But that had been a few years ago. Now he raced back, terrified he wouldn’t get there in time – but he wasn’t sure what for.

When he got there, the shop was closed. There was a sign ‘Closed for funeral’

Mr Fell?

Yet a moment later, Mr Fell was there, beside him.

‘My dear boy, so good of you to come.’

‘I had to, I don’t know why…’

Mr Fell walked away to greet an elderly woman accompanied by a very large Scottish man.

‘It’s Mr Crowley,’ Adam said, suddenly appearing at his side. ‘He was hit by a car and died a week ago.’

The man looked up the street – and there was a hearse, a coffin inside it.

‘Oh, poor Mr Fell,’ the man said. ‘He must be heartbroken.’

‘I don’t think there are words for what Mr Fell is. Not in this language anyway.’ Adam said. He was an odd man, there was a feeling of unreality about him, like what you saw wasn’t quite what he was. He had a small black and white dog by his side.

‘What will Mr Fell do without him?’ the man said, watching the old white-haired man take his place behind the hearse. He bent over for a minute, leaning on Mr Crowley’s stick, not able to bear the weight of this moment, burying his love, but then he straightened up.

‘He’ll wait,’ Adam said, as they moved off, moving slowly though the streets of Soho. There was no sound. Somehow it all was deadened. Even the traffic stopped, although the drivers didn’t seem to know why. ‘Mr Crowley waited 6000 years for him. Mr Fell won’t have to wait nearly as long.’

They walked on. The man decided he had misheard, or it was hyperbole. Not 6000 years. He looked around. There was such a large crowd here. People he’d seen before in the book shop, people he’d never met before, all of them, following the pale man behind the black hearse.

‘I don’t know how I came here,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘I didn’t even get a phone call or a letter.’

‘No-one did,’ Adam said. ‘We just knew.’

‘How does that even work?’

Adam looked at him strangely and for a moment his eyes flashed red in the setting sun.

‘That means you’re one of us, when the time comes.’

‘What?’

But there was music coming from somewhere. A beautiful, intricate piano piece that swelled into a song. There were no radios, or speakers anywhere. The sound seemed to come from the heavens. They walked on, as Love of My Life played to them.

OoOoOoO

He went to the bookshop more and more now. He said he did to keep an eye on Mr Fell, but it was for himself. His life was a mess. He loved the wrong person. The conversations in those little darkened rooms were getting more fraught. He felt tense all the time, with a constant headache like he got when a storm was coming. He only ever felt at peace in the bookshop.

It took twenty-five years. The world does not fall apart all at once. It crumbles very slowly, like a cake that is left in a cupboard and everyone is sure is absolutely fine, and then someone touches it one day and finds it’s five years past it’s sell-by date and it disintegrates into crumbs.

Tony went to the bookshop, for what he was very afraid would be the last time. He found himself drawn to a large illustrated copy of Paradise Lost. He opened it to a picture of the angels falling from Heaven. One red-haired angel looked very familiar. He looked at closely. He could swear…

‘Ah yes, Crowley was always very proud of that,’ Mr Fell said, peering over his shoulder. He looked so very old and tired now, but there was a light in his eyes that hadn’t been there for twenty-five years. ‘He posed for it himself.’

‘But this book is hundreds of years old.’

‘Mmm. I think it’s about time we had a chat, don’t you? Would you like some cocoa?’

OoOoOo

The back room of the shop was very packed with books and a sofa and chair and several bottles of wine, only half-drunk. But it was cosy and comfortable and the man felt no-one would find him there. The cocoa was good, just tasting of cinnamon.

‘Tell me,’ Mr Fell said, sitting down on the chair by the desk. Tony had wanted to offer him the sofa, but Mr Fell had shook his head, and he recalled he always seen Crowley sitting there. Twenty-five years Mr Fell had sat in his chair, facing an empty sofa. The man sat on it gingerly, not feeling like it was his place, but Mr Fell beamed at him.

‘Tell me, do you enjoy your work? I ask because you never seem to be very happy when you come here.’

‘I used to. I mean, I think I used to. Now – now it’s awful.’

‘Then why do it?’

‘I don’t know. Do you know, I’ve never really thought about it? It just sort of happened. I suppose it was the family business. And now I feel if I walk away, I’ll be letting everyone down and betraying all those people who believed in me.’

‘I felt like that once,’ Mr Fell said. ‘Before I owned this bookshop. I had a family firm, and I thought they were the very best people and I should be honoured to be part of them and to be proud of working for them, even if it meant great personal loss to myself.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Oh, they turned out to be complete bastards. I should never have believed them.’

The man was slightly surprised to hear Mr Fell swear – but rather liked it. There was a streak of anger there.

‘The problem is, if I leave, they’ll think I’m working for the other side, rather than their side. That’s how they’ll see it.’

‘Don’t be on either side. Be on your own side.’ Mr Fell said, and he sipped his cocoa, watching him over the lip of the cup. ‘Tell me, if it’s not too personal a question, are you in love?’

The man practically choked on his cocoa.

‘No! I mean, - no, I’m not currently – I’m divorced – I mean – no. No. Absolutely not.’

‘I see.’ Mr Fell took another sip. ‘And does this person love you back?’

The man slumped in defeat.

‘I think so. It’s someone I’ve known for a very long time. Do you remember when I came here at 3 in the morning? Something had happened then – I’ve known since then. And thank you, for being so kind that day.’

‘It’s nothing. Kindness, I find, is an absolute necessity in this world, and one we can all supply.’ He sipped again, then frowned. ‘Oh dear, I’ve finished my cocoa. I must make some more.’

‘Let me.’ Tony stood up and reached out for Mr Fell’s angel wings mug. ‘I know how to make cocoa. My nanny taught me. Well, my nanny and the gardener, oddly enough.’

Mr Fell handed him the mug, and his eyes were very bright.

OoOoOoOo

The kitchen was brightly lit, with a row of plants on the windowsill. The walls were hung with copper pans and rows of utensils that looked like some kind of torture devices but were probably perfectly innocent cookery tools. He set the milk on to boil.

_The secret is, young master, not to boil it too quickly._

_He’s never going to have to learn to make cocoa, Azi…Brother Francis, so why teach him._

_Everyone should learn, Nanny. Cocoa is very comforting. And it’s no use just sticking it in the microwave, it has to be boiled._

_Oh, all right. Although why we have to boil it in your shed over a spirit-lamp – alright! I’m not arguing. And I bought the cinnamon._

Tony shook his head. He looked round at the walls. They were covered in pictures, mostly religious ones. He hadn’t thought Mr Fell was particularly religious.

_He really should stay away from churches. I have no idea what would happen if he went in one, but it would probably be painful for someone._

_Yes, you’re right. Tell you what, I’ll take him out to Kew Gardens._

_Must you? I hate Kew Gardens, they’re always so nice to their plants_

Where were these voices coming from? He peered at the pictures. Now he really looked at them he could see they were all of the same subject – a red-haired angel. Sometimes a red-haired demon. Flaming red hair, and sometimes the eyes of a snake. And that one – some sketch done by an Impressionist in Paris, a young man with red hair and dark glasses. And over there – a beautiful photograph of Mr Fell and Mr Crowley in bright sixties Soho streets. And a Pre-Raphaelite painting of a tempting red-haired woman, holding out an apple.

His heart lurched a little. Mr Fell had surrounded himself with pictures that looked like Mr Crowley.

The milk was beginning to boil, and Tony started to mix the cocoa powder with a little cold milk, stirring slowly to create a paste. He looked again at the pictures. Funny how alike they all looked though, as if the same man – and occasionally the same woman – had posed for all of them.

He looked even closer, and somewhere in his mind, a door opened…

Mr Fell heard the cup smash as Tony dropped it. Ah well, it didn’t matter now. Tony came rushing in, tie askew, breathless, trying to catch up with all the memories in his head.

‘Nanny! Nanny Ashtoreth!’

‘What about her, dear?’

Tony clung onto the doorpost as if his world was spinning – which it was.

‘She was Crowley! I mean – Crowley was her. And you were Brother Francis! You were the gardener!’

‘Well, it took you long enough, Warlock.’


	3. Chapter 3

‘I call myself Tony now,’ he said, lowering himself onto the sofa. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he could hear the world spinning round on its axis. He did hope he wasn’t going to be sick. ‘Warlock isn’t really suitable to be one of the unnoticed people who run the world.’

‘I suppose not. And is Tony short for…’

‘Anthony. Anthony James Dowling,’ he said breathlessly, staring at Mr Fell.

‘Anthony James? Oh, how perfect. Crowley would be pleased.’

‘I don’t…I don’t understand.’

‘Ah, well, you see, it’s very simple. We thought you were the Anti-Christ and we were trying to avert the Apocalypse, so we thought we’d better work together to try and stop you. Actually, it’s not simple at all really, but that was the start of it. Unless you go all the way back to the Garden but Crowley always said I shouldn’t even think about that. I mean, I was on apple-tree duty, so it is technically my fault – I’m just going to get my cocoa.’

There were several statements in what Mr Fell had just said that turned Tony’s knees to jelly, and he thought he’d better deal with just one.

‘You thought I was the Anti-Christ?’

‘Yes, but it turned out you weren’t, so that’s all right.’ Mr Fell said, as he returned from the kitchen.

‘I don’t know,’ Tony said, sitting up. Mr Fell poured him a glass of whisky and he gulped at it. ‘I was a pretty horrible brat as a child.’

‘Well, that’s hardly surprising. We gave you some very mixed messages.’

_Don’t listen to the gardener dear, listen to me._

_Don’t you listen to Nanny, listen to me._

_You are born to rule the world and squash all living things under your feet, so do rip up the neighbours flowers if you wish. Don’t touch Brother Francis’ flowers though, he’d be very upset._

_‘You be kind to all living things, young Master Dowling and don’t listen to your nanny. But do tell her I’m having tea in my hut at 3pm and I’m expecting her. And you make yourself scarce, I want a good long chat with Nanny. But don’t you listen to her.’_

‘You left. When I was ten, you both just left.’

‘It was time,’ Mr Fell said. ‘We’d done all you could. But we were at your eleventh birthday. I did magic tricks!’

‘I remember you! You were terrible – sorry. Hang on, wasn’t that the one where the bodyguards guns went off?’

‘I’m afraid so. And we did keep an eye on you. Well, Crowley wanted to kill you, but I wouldn’t.’

‘He wanted you to kill me?’ Tony was certain he had actually died and this was some weird version of hell.

‘Oh, but I didn’t! I couldn’t. I didn’t kill the real Anti-Christ either, but that was all okay, because he saved the world.’

‘I don’t understand how all this is possible. Why were you killing the Anti-Christ? Why were you trying to stop the Apocalypse? How did you even know about the Apocalypse? And who’s the real Anti-Christ? And I swear Nanny was a real woman, not a man dressed up!’

‘Well of course Nanny was a woman, dear,’ Mr Fell said, as if slightly hurt. ‘Crowley was always very mutable about genders. And species too, for that matter. I liked to pick a shape and stick to it, but he was always changing his look. Always still Crowley underneath it all, though, of course.’

‘Mutable?’

‘He was a demon. They can do that. Well, so can angels. And I am the Angel Aziraphale. The real Anti-Christ is Adam, who I believe you’ve met. He’s a very pleasant man now.’

The world went quiet. No doubt the traffic flowed and people talked and horns beeped and music played and cups clinked and life went on but for Tony – Warlock Anthony James Dowling – the world was silent. Mr Fell sipped his whisky.

‘Angel?’

‘Yes, I’m an angel.’

‘And demon?’

‘Yes. I do need you to grasp this quickly, it will be important soon. Think back to your childhood. Think back to any odd incidents.’

Tony swallowed his whisky and tried to remember. Surely a childhood always seems odd when you’re an adult? All those imaginary games and fairy tales and stories told after dark.

‘I met a man on the fields of Megiddo. He didn’t want to talk to my parents, just me,’ he said, slowly. ‘I told him he smelled of poo.’

‘Ah, the demon Hastur! Yes, Crowley enjoyed that. Hastur really did stink. Listen, Warlock…’

‘Tony…’

‘No, it’s time to be Warlock now. Whatever we did, somehow, we prepared you. You’re aware of things. You’re special.’

‘Adam said much the same thing.’

‘Yes, well, he sees things. What happened forty-five years ago wasn’t the end. It was just a pause. Things will get bad again soon.’

‘What do you expect me to do about it?’

Mr Fell shrugged.

‘Run a bookshop. Be in love. Do what you must. That’s what I did. Look, I don’t have time to tell you the whole story, but there is a book, written by two terribly nice men, all about what happened last time. They think they made the story up, but actually we put it in their heads.’

‘Run a bookshop?’

‘Yes, I’m leaving you this one. It’s my time, and I think you would be perfect.’

‘Your time?’

Lights dimmed and shadows deepened.

‘It’s been 25 years, 6 months, 5 days and 79 minutes since the man I loved died in my arms out there. I think he’s waited long enough for me, don’t you?’

‘But if you really are an angel and a demon…’

‘They took that away from us. A year after it all happened, Crowley woke up and smiled at me and his eyes were brown, not yellow. Still beautiful, but human. We were no longer angel and demon. We didn’t mind. We had a life to live. Twenty years seems like a heartbeat if you’re immortal, but so long if you are human, and we had twenty years. But he always forgot he was mortal, and would do stupid things like run across the road without looking. He was hit by a car in that street just out there. He’d been buying muffins for me and wanted to get them back while they were still warm. I just managed to get out there in time to hold him before he died. I told him to wait for me, and I know he has.’

’25 years…’

‘He waited 6000 for me. But it has been a long time. I have never gone 25 years without seeing Crowley, not since the first few years. And even when we were apart, I knew he was there, in the world. If I needed him, he came, every time, no matter what the reason. I know he hasn’t moved on. I know he’s there, waiting. I even still see him, sometimes, in the shadow, leaning up against that pillar, pouring me a drink, waiting, as he always did.’

_Nanny and the gardener walking round the lawn arm in arm, laughing uproariously._

_Brother Francis presenting Nanny with a red rose, and Nanny murmuring ‘bit much’ and Francis murmuring ‘I can take it back if you don’t like it’ – but she kept it, and pressed it between the pages of a copy of Hamlet._

_Nanny standing by the window, watching Francis working in the garden for ages._

And from somewhere, memories that were not Tony’s own began to flood in

_Two men, standing together, laughing, watching Much Ado about Nothing in an old theatre._

_An angel and a demon walking up Everest to see the sun rise._

_A demon listening to an angel trying to tempt a man into running off with his firm’s savings but also give it all to the poor._

_Two friends strolling along the path in a park, feeding the ducks. As one duck sinks, the fair one tells the red haired one ‘really, my dear,’ and the duck comes back to life again._

_One man, clutching his hat and looking worried, standing by the side of the bed of the red-haired sleeping man, whispering ‘it’s been ten years, wake up, I need to apologise.’_

_Friends dancing together as the lights go back on in Piccadilly Circus as the war ends._

_A man sitting in a car alone, stroking a thermos, wondering what he can do._

_A man alone in a bookshop, happy and secure and trying not to think about what he is missing or the constant pain in his heart._

_A man alone in a grey room, staring at a statue he took from a ruined church, never forgetting he is fallen._

_Angels demanding loyalty._

_Demons demanding pain._

_Two men, hand in hand on a bus._

_Two lovers, dining at the Ritz._

_Two lovers, healing each other._

_Two lovers, discovering their joy in each other._

_Two lovers, whispering long into the night, explaining and re-living and understanding_

_Two lovers living for each other, for twenty years, fifty, six thousand years._

Tony took a deep breath. He looked up, tears in his eyes. Mr Fell – Aziraphale, the angel, sits there, watching him. He looks very thin, and very small, and yet, he glows.

‘I lost him,’ he said. ‘For 25 years, 6 months, 3 weeks, 5 days and 80 minutes, he has been nothing but memories, and I just gave them to you.’

‘I think I might have had a few of his too.’

Aziraphale smiled.

‘Maybe. He always did have a habit of pulling one more trick out of his hat, if needed. He’s here now, I think. I’ll be gone soon. Do you understand?’

‘Run the bookshop. Be in love. Do what I must.’

‘Good. You won’t be alone. I suspect Anathema and Adam will be here by morning. And your love too. This is a place of love.’

‘You’re leaving me? I don’t know what to do!’

Aziraphale looked at him, and then past him. Warlock looked back.

A thin young man with red hair, dressed all in black, leaned against the pillar, pouring wine into a glass.

‘Come on, angel,’ he said. When Warlock looked back at Aziraphale, he could see he was young again too, glowing and beautiful.

‘Choose your own side, Warlock. It’s what we raised you do to.’

He looked up at Crowley, and smiled.

‘Oh, my dear.’ He walked towards him, his hand held out, and for one moment, the shop was filled with light.

When the light was gone, there was nothing left. Tony heard the shop bell rang, and he turned to see Adam come in and come to the back.

‘They’re together,’ Warlock said. Adam nodded, understanding.

The two men, the children of the Apocalypse sat, and drank together in Mr Fell’s bookshop, and talked.


End file.
